My-my, how very interesting. The mysterious Noah X has posted something personal on social media for a change.

And just like that my pulse speeds up – the way it always does before I make a risky decision.

I glance back at our group: Stan is talking to one of the freelancers now, Claudia is holding up her vintage Hermès bag for someone to inspect, and the pregnant lady is stroking her stomach. I look back to the screen and play his story once again, taking in the surroundings. I think about Hyacinth’s email – dig deeper; and my conversation with Stan – whatever it takes; and the Google alert about Harrison – and maybe it’s all of those things, or maybe it’s none, but it seems to me there’s only one way this night should end.

And so I tap on ‘send message’ and type: Hey stranger, can I come?

Chapitre huit

I slam the door of the Uber and look around. There’s an old Parisian streetlight covered in advertising stickers at the top of a set of concrete stairs that run between this street and the one below. Its amber glow reflects off the leaves of an overhanging tree and lights up the blue and white street sign: Rue Chappe. I look at my sat nav then down the stairs: Noah’s building should be about a third of the way down. The Uber driver turns up his music – it’s French hip-hop – revs his engine and drives away. And I’m left alone, on this empty cobbled street on the hill in Montmartre, wondering what the hell I’m doing.

I grasp the cool black railing and move down the steps, searching for a building number.

Number twenty-three.

It’s cream and residential with those very-Parisian-shutters and, even in the dim light, I can tell that much of the paint is peeling off. The brown wooden doors are open, all the downstairs lights are on and the muted boom of drum and bass reverberates through the walls. I can feel it in my chest.

I stare at the entrance.

I’m here now, I should just go inside.

But I stay glued to the spot. My eyelids are heavy, my arms are covered in goosebumps beneath my denim jacket and maybe I’m sobering up now because I’m having some pretty strong second thoughts. I look down at the ground and it sways up towards me.

What precisely is my plan here? Just go in and ask him a bunch of questions and put the answers in my article? What exactly am I hoping he’ll say?

I should go.

I reach into my bag, pull out my phone and go to the Uber app to order a car home. But just before I put in my address I hear, ‘Are you just going to stand there all night?’

Shit.

I look up and around: left, right.

And then I see him. Standing right in front of me in the open doorway. Waving. I limply wave back and move towards him. He’s wearing light blue jeans that are ripped at one knee and a black sleeveless T-shirt. His left arm is covered in tattoos. There’s a big jagged speech bubble with the word ka-pow! on his bicep; he looks like he just stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue.